


Tenere

by AuditoryCheesecake



Category: Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Adoribull - Freeform, Dorian the Over-Dramatic Nerd, Established Relationship, Fluff, Gift Giving, M/M, Mentioned Dorian/Rilienus
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-02-17
Updated: 2017-04-15
Packaged: 2018-09-25 04:53:55
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 2,785
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9803390
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AuditoryCheesecake/pseuds/AuditoryCheesecake
Summary: Dorian keeps things, sometimes. Silly, sentimental things.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks, as usual, to [ Uniqueinalltheworld](http://archiveofourown.org/users/uniqueinalltheworld/pseuds/uniqueinalltheworld) for beta reading!

He keeps things, sometimes. Things that aren’t quite gifts, and that he could conceivably use again: a squat ceramic bottle that he and Sera had emptied of liquor one night a few weeks back; a lyrium phial etched with intricate designs that Vivienne had offered to him during a battle; a list of books Cassandra recommended and he has no intention of ever reading.

This scrap of cloth has very little purpose, and Dorian feels foolish whenever he wraps it around his wrist or uses it to mark his place in a book. It’s not dangerous, not in the same way it would be in Tevinter, but it is foolish, in that he’s utterly terrified of anyone discovering what it is and what it means.

To the casual observer, he hopes, it would look like trash. If anyone recognized it, there’d surely be questions. A strip of green fabric, sweat-stained and threadworn. There’s even spots of blood along one end. It's a silly little thing, barely even a trinket.

The blood is his. The sweat, less so. The cloth became his after a fight in the Fallow Mire, when Bull wrapped it around a gash in Dorian’s arm. The pair of trousers it was torn from were already destined for rags, so Dorian didn’t feel guilty about keeping it after the wound was washed and healed. Just foolish.

 

“What _are_ these things, anyways?” The Iron Bull holds up the left half of a lover’s knot, spring green silk and light blue linen wrapped in a complicated pattern. “And why are they _everywhere_?”

“Lovers’ knots.” Dorian says at the same time as Cassandra.

“Like wedding rings,” she continues, “but far easier to make.”

“The different colors represent the people in the relationship,” Dorian says. “Matching knots for when the lovers are apart. They’re supposed to be unique to the individuals, but I can’t imagine no one’s ever used these colors before.”

“I think it’s romantic,” Cassandra huffs at him.

“The Qun’s got something like that,” Bull says thoughtfully. “But with a split dragon’s tooth, not ribbon.”

Cassandra’s eyes light up. “That’s so--”

“It’s not romantic.” Bull mutters, and she deflates. None of them push Bull too hard about the Qun, not since the Storm Coast.

Dorian leaves the room then, because it _is_ romantic, and he’s the sort of fool who will tell Bull that if he’s not careful. He doesn’t need to imagine what it would be like to give-- no. No he does not.

 

“So, how do you know what lovers’ knots are? Thought it was a Fereldan thing.” Dorian nearly spills ink over the parchment he’s annotating. It’s utterly unfair that Bull be able to sneak so effectively.

He sets his quill down carefully. “I read it in a book.”

“Sure. Think you misspelled Corypheus there.” Bull leans over Dorian’s shoulder to peer at his notes. “So, who was he?”

“Who was Corypheus?” Dorian ignores the weight of Bull’s hand on the back of his chair. “Well, I haven’t been able to pin him down entirely--”

“No, the guy you tied a lovers’ knot with, or whatever it’s called.”

“That’s an _awful_ euphemism, I’ll have you know.” Dorian sighs. “His name was Rilenius. We were young and foolish. Please stop talking.”

“You still think about him?” Bull’s far too close for Dorian to be having this conversation. This is where Bull stands to whisper delightful things in Dorian’s ear, not to interrogate him about lost loves.

“Sometimes, I suppose. I imagine he’s married by now.”

Bull hums sympathetically. Desperate to change the subject, Dorian casts about on the desk for something that might distract him.

Bull sees the scrap at the same time Dorian does, he’s sure. In any case, he reaches down and grabs it before Dorian has a chance to stop him.

“Isn’t this mine?” Bull rubs the fabric between his fingers. “Yeah, it is! This is definitely from my pants. Why do you have my pants?”

Heat crawls up the back of Dorian’s neck. “I don’t!” he stutters. “It’s just--”

“Wait, I remember now. You cut your hand.” He starts to laugh. “Why do you still have this?”

He hadn’t expected Bull to understand, but to be _laughed at_ \-- Dorian snatches it back, suddenly angry. He leaves Bull behind him, completely confused. It serves him right.

 

Dorian sulks for a while, but it’s not an indignation that can carry him for very long. After moping on his bed for half an hour, he cracks open one of his old books about relative Veil frequencies.

He’s partway through the chapter on veilfire and spirit activity when there’s a knock on his door.

“You in there, Pavus?” It’s Krem, of all people.

“No,” Dorian replies, just because.

“Can I come in?”

For a moment, Dorian does consider saying no again. Krem would probably leave. He gets up and opens the door.

“Maker, you have even more books than I thought,” is the first thing that Krem says. He moves one off the chair at the desk and sits down.

Dorian, feeling like there’s about to be some sort of _conversation_ , says, “would you like tea?”

Krem raises his eyebrows judgmentally. “No thanks. Look, the Chief knows he stepped in it, but he doesn’t know how. If you want an apology or something, you’re going to have to tell him that.”

“I’m afraid I don’t follow.” Krem’s expression is far more serious than Dorian’s used to. “What does he think--”

“You’ve been in here all day.” Krem shrugs. “You missed supper after storming off, and he’s got his panties in a bunch because you’re pissed at him and he doesn’t know why.”

“I missed--?” Dorian glances out the window. It is rather dark. “I was reading. And I’ve missed meals before. Does he always… whatever this is?”

“No.” Krem rubs his forehead. “Look, you know how he likes to know everything?”

“Intimately.” Dorian smirks.

“Please don’t.” Looking extremely put upon, Krem soldiers on. “He’s used to knowing why people do things, and what they want. So, when he doesn’t get what’s going on, he gets… really annoying, mostly.”

“So you’re here to decipher the mysterious Altus?”

“Well, he said you got mad that he found a piece of fabric from his pants. Usually I’m able to translate, but--” He waves his hands to communicate the utter nonsense of the whole business. “His _pants_?”

“I was wounded,” Dorian says primly, “and we had no bandages--”

“And you kept it.” Krem rubs his hands over his face. “Of course you did.”

“He wasn’t supposed to know,” Dorian mutters.

“Maker’s balls, you have _feelings_ , don’t you?”

Dorian bristles at that. “Of course I have _feelings_ , Krem. I’m not heartless, am I? He’s a good man, the best man I know, and he’s-- he’s kind, and intelligent, and he--”

“Please calm down,” Krem says. 

“I am perfectly calm.”

“Right.” They stare at each other. “So you’re in love with the Chief, and he’s--”

“Not. Yes, I know.” 

“Not aware,” Krem corrects him.

Dorian sighs.

 

He’s reluctant to leave his room that next morning. Who knows what Krem said to how many people-- or to Bull. Who knows what Krem said to Bull.

He doesn’t find out right away, because Josephine waylays him. “You’re invited to a ball in Serault,” she says, “as an agent of the Inquisition.”

Dorian bows over her hand with a smile. He rather enjoys gathering gossip for Josephine. “I’m happy to help, Lady Josephine. My ears are at your disposal.”

She laughs. “Are you and your ears prepared to leave today? I apologize for the short notice, but the message came late last night and you’re the best representative we currently have unassigned.”

“I can leave within the hour, if needs must.” She looks too harried for him to refuse.

So it’s back to his room to pack for a month’s journey. Thankfully, the Inquisition can spare a light coach and small guard. He can think of little worse than riding to the western edges of Orlais alone.

Bull intercepts him at the gate. He’s dressed for riding as well, and Dorian briefly hopes that they’re on assignments that will take them in the same direction.

But as Bull gets closer Dorian sees that he’s returning. There’s dust on his boots and sweat on his arms, and he stops an arm’s-length from Dorian.

“Heard Josie’s sending you west,” he says.

“For a month, at least,” Dorian agrees. Normally, this is where one of them kisses the other, best wishes are exchanged, and Dorian pretends that Bull will miss him just as desperately as he’ll miss Bull.

“The boys and I went to Serault once,” Bull says. “It was creepy.”

“That’s the rumor.” The awkwardness is unbearable. “Look, Bull, I’m sorry I--”

“Here.” Bull holds a belt-knife out to him, hilt first. Dorian takes it on instinct. In his hands, it’s nearly a shortsword. Bull hands him the sheath that usually hangs on his hip, as well.

The blade is dawnstone, because of course it is.

Bull clears his throat. “In case you need to stab anything while you’re there.”

“Thank you,” Dorian says softly. “I’ll bring it back in one piece. I really should apologize for--”

“I was thinking you should keep it.” Bull cuts him off. “Never know when you might need a blade.”

“You haven’t forgotten that I can set things on fire with my mind, have you?” Dorian can’t help but smile.

“No.” Bull scratches the base of his horn. He’s _blushing_. “But it’s the next best thing to me being there.”

Dorian grins up at him. “Are you worried about me, Bull?” 

“Yeah. I’d be pretty pissed if you got hurt, you know.”

If he weren’t holding the sword, Dorian would probably kiss him. “I’d be pretty pissed if you got hurt too.”

“Do you want it? I can get you an embroidered handkerchief later, but this is all I’ve got on me at the moment.”

“It’s perfect, Bull.” 

“It doesn’t have to mean anything if you don’t want--”

“I do,” Dorian cuts him off.

“You’ll--” Bull clears his throat awkwardly. “You’ll keep it, then? The knife, and uh, and everything.”

“Of course,” Dorian answers. “I’ll treasure it.”


	2. Chapter 2

Bull watches Dorian ride out the gates, his blade at the mage’s hip. It doesn’t make sense to give a gift and hope it’s never used, but he hopes.

He hopes Dorian comes back safe. He hopes Dorian dances with handsome nobles in Serault, men who make him laugh and who can match him step for step on the dancefloor. He hopes the road is easy, and he hopes that Dorian doesn’t need the sword, and he hopes that Dorian comes back soon. He hopes that Dorian’s coming back to him, in particular.

Bull thinks he’s right about that. He hopes he is.

 

His room feels empty. It’s not like Dorian’s always there, but it’s different now. Bull keeps expecting him to turn up at his door with a book and and a bottle of wine. He keeps himself busy in the training ring, or hunting for the keep when the Inquisitor doesn’t need him. A wild boar is more than the scouts can handle on their own, and the Chargers can always use a tracking exercise. 

It surprises him when he realizes that Dorian’s been gone two weeks. He’s more surprised when one of Red’s messengers finds him in the tavern and hands him a letter. He almost opens it right away, but there’s something about seeing his name written in Dorian’s sloping handwriting that makes him tuck it into a pocket and go up to his room.

Krem locks eyes with him on the way out, and Bull can tell that he knows exactly where he’s going.

The letter’s short. A third of the length is just _I’ve tucked this in with my reports to Sister Nightingale._ There’s another sentence about how the trip’s been uneventful. _We expect to reach Serault town and the Castle of A Thousand Windows or whatever the locals call it tomorrow. I wish you were here. It’s supposed to be quite striking._

Bull sits on his bed and reads it again. _I wish you were here._ He wonders if Dorian means it the way he does.

 

 _Her Grace the Marquis of Serault is not fond of me,_ Dorian writes a week and a half later. _I made the mistake of suggesting that a hunt needn’t start before dawn. Her bard likes me better, though. Apparently no one here appreciates his music._

Bull spends a bit too long trying to decipher the meaning of that sentence. It probably just means that he’s enjoying himself. No reason for Bull to feel frustrated or annoyed or-- whatever it is that’s tightened in his gut. It definitely doesn’t mean that Dorian’s going to stay in Serault forever.

Especially since the next sentence is _I’m looking forward to seeing Skyhold’s stone again. There’s windows everywhere, and I’m always worried that someone’s looking in._

Bull keeps this letter with the first, in the desk drawer where he puts the penknife he uses to sharpen his quills. He looks at them every time he sits down to write anything. It takes him three days to write back to him, and all he’s able to put to paper is _I miss you_.

 

Krem tells him he’s pining. Leliana tells him that Dorian’s reports are likely delayed in the Exalted Plains, where the Freemen are rattling their spears again. Ma’am invites him to tea every day.

Another week passes without news from Dorian. Bull tries not to let his anxiety show, mostly because he doesn’t know exactly how to explain it. 

The letter that eventually comes is short and does nothing to make Bull feel better.

_I’ve had occasion to use your gift. The Inquisition now has three fewer enemies. Tell Sera not to worry, and I’ll be back before the annum._

The holiday is still two weeks out, and there’s nothing in the note for Bull in particular. No indication if Dorian’s injured, just the knowledge that he might be. Bull just has to grit his teeth and take the empty reassurance that he’s well enough to write a letter.

 

He hears the scout’s report to Red while he’s in the library. He could say he wasn’t there to eavesdrop, but then he’d have to admit that he was mooning over Dorian’s empty chair like a character from one of Varric’s novels.

Bull doesn’t hurry to the courtyard. The party’s still an hour out, by the sound of it. But they’re all riding, at a decent pace, and Dorian’s with them.

He waits by the gate anyways, watching merchants and scouts and hunters coming into the keep. The shadows grow a little longer, and Krem comes down the stairs from the tavern to give him a hard time.

He deserves every word of it. When Dorian rides through the gate, dusty and tired, Bull’s sure the courtyard gets brighter. He’s on his feet by the time Dorian sees him, and Dorian’s off his horse by the time Bull’s crossed the space between them.

Bull’s dagger is hanging on Dorian’s hip, and it looks right, like that’s where it belongs.

Dorian smiles up at him, and that’s right, too.

“Hey,” Bull says. “I missed you.”

“Of course you did.” Dorian tugs at the strap of Bull’s pauldron until he leans down far enough for Dorian to kiss him. It’s chaste, but not brief, and Bull’s hands land on Dorian’s hips, keeping him close even after he lets go.

“You said you stabbed someone,” Bull says after a moment.

Dorian huffs. “They were after the Marquis, not me. Don’t look so worried.”

Bull shrugs and Dorian smiles again.

“I brought you a gift.” He takes a small box out of his travel pack. “Serault’s glassworks are incredible. The Marquis gave me a tour, and I saw this-- I thought of you.”

It’s a dragon, small enough to fit in the palm of Dorian’s hand. Bull takes the box carefully. “It’s so--”

“There weren’t any pink ones, I’m sorry. Red is the closest I could get.”

“I love it, kadan.” He bites his tongue, but it’s out now. “It’s perfect.”

Dorian preens and doesn’t ask what it means. “Naturally.”

“You thought about me, huh?”

“Every time I felt unbalanced because I had a broadsword on my belt,” Dorian says with a grin.

Bull kisses him again, just to feel the way he’s smiling. “Good.”

“I’ve gotten used to it now,” Dorian murmurs. “I’m not sure I’m ready to give it back.”

“Keep it,” Bull tells him. “I can’t think of a better place for it.”


End file.
